WINDHEALER (8 page)

"Why the hell are you punishing him, Commandant?" an inmate shouted. "The boy's hurt."

"Don't make no difference to these bastards if he is!"

"One more word, one more defiance of the law, and I'll have him flogged!" Appolyon's bellow shattered the mumbling, cursing voices, bringing an immediate, deadly, sullen quiet.

It was Prince Tyne Brell of Chale who noticed something odd about the prisoner, something odd and yet familiar. He edged closer to the upright and skirted several guards, who, at his approach, fingered their serviceable swords. One guard turned his head, obviously considered Tyne no threat, then turned his attention to the Commandant.

"To your huts!" Appolyon screamed. "Now!"

A few men reluctantly shuffled toward their barracks, looking back over their shoulders at the prisoner with something akin to remorse on their hard faces. Some seemed to be genuinely grieved at the man's predicament, while others appeared to be gloating. But most of the men stood and waited.

"Get back to your huts or do you want him to pay for it?"

The remaining men began to drift away, their faces hard, their fists clenched.

"You, too, Brell," a guard mumbled to the Chalean Prince. "Get back to your hut."

Tyne Brell didn't even glance at the guard. Instead, he strolled to the upright and craned his neck sideways to look up into the prisoner's face. He wanted to assure himself the man was all right. His compassion, something for which the small man was known, had driven him to help. His courage, something as much a part of him as the air he breathed, had spurred him on despite the Commandant's insane raving. He wanted to help, and if it meant taking a beating to help the poor fellow, he would gladly suffer it.

But when Tyne took in the battered, bloody face, when the man opened his eyes and stared blankly back at him, Brell knew, for the first time in his life, total and complete cowardice. His mouth dropped open and no matter how hard he tried, no sound would come out. He drew in his breath. His chest felt like someone had wrapped a steel band around it as if he were a keg of ale. He turned around, searching for Grice Wynth.

"Get away, Brell!" the guard cautioned. "
Now!"

Sentian squinted in confusion. He almost grinned at the stupid look on Tyne's thin face, but something in those dark brown eyes made him stop. He saw Tyne put distance between himself and the prisoner, grab another upright as though his knees were about to buckle. A shudder of cold went through Sentian's body, and a kind of psychic premonition—his "special insight," as the lady called it—made the air around him waver. In a blind trance, he made his way toward Brell.

Sentian was not alone in his feeling. Prince Chase Montyne of Ionary had also been watching Tyne, and he, too, started toward the prisoner.

"Keep away from him!" Appolyon shouted. "Or else he'll suffer for it!"

Lydon strode purposefully toward the upright. He put out his hand to stop Paegan Hesar, who had been about to join Brell. "If you men don't get your arses inside your huts, I'll turn the little bastard inside out!" Lydon shouted, shoving Shalu out of his way as he made for the upright.

Roget covered the distance between himself and Tyne Brell in less time than he would have thought humanly possible. He jerked the stunned man toward the hut, but Tyne kept turning his head to stare back at the prisoner.

Aftere shoving Tyne into the hut, Roget gathered the others—Grice, Chand, Sentian, Paegan and Chase—into the room, waited until Thom, Hern, and Shalu had joined them, then slammed the door. He heard a muffled sob and yanked open the door to see Jah-Ma-El standing there, holding his bloody nose.

"I think you broke it," Jah-Ma-El said through the muffled constriction of his fingers.

"Sorry." Roget shoved him toward Shalu, and then shut the door once more.

"You men are just going to leave that poor fellow hanging there?" Grice asked, his face angry. "What did he do to deserve that? Live through the rock slide?"

"That's about it." Thom sat on one of the two chairs in the barracks. He bent forward and put his big head in his huge hands. He was crying.

Tyne managed to find his voice. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"We were waiting for the right time," Shalu answered.

"As if there was one!" Hern snapped, going to the window, shoving Chase Montyne aside. "Sit down, Montyne!"

Tyne shook his head. "How long has he been here?"

"From the very beginning," Storm said.

Brell shuddered. "You could have warned us."

"I can't believe it," Tyne mumbled and sat on his bunk. "I can't believe that he's even alive."

"Who the hell are you talking about?" Grice screamed.

"Who the hell would I ever back down for?" Hern asked, a sneer in his voice. "Who any of us would back down for, Wynth?"

"Who would we have such love and respect for that we would risk losing our lives to protect him?" Thom asked. "How many men have you ever known that could inspire, and desrved, such loyalty? Or who has had less reason to deserve the abuse he's been subjected to?"

"What one man has garnered the enmity of the entire Domination?" Shalu asked quietly, his gaze steady on Chase Montyne.

"It can't be," Chase breathed, shock turning his pallid blond coloring even whiter.

Paegan Hesar, having guessed the prisoner's identity, shook his head. "No one saw him die."

Grice slammed his hand against the wall. "I know I'm just as smart as the rest of you, but I'll be damned if I know who you're babbling about! I can't pull a name out of the air."

"Our sister could," Chand answered, tears flowing down his sunken cheeks. "The man out there could before they branded him a traitor and told us he had died."

Grice stared at him. "Conar?"

"No," Sentian whispered, slowly turning his head toward the door. "He is dead. I saw him."

"He was made to appear that way. He's been here all along," Jah-Ma-El stated.

Sentian headed for the door, knocking Roget aside.

"Don't go!" Thom shouted, but the young man was already out the door. Thom made to follow, but Storm stepped in his path.

"You'll make matters worse!" Storm warned.

Sentian was at the whipping post before any of the others could react.

"For the love of Alel!" a guard shouted, running at a quick lope. "Don't go near him!"

Sentian skidded to a halt before the upright. With trembling hands, he lifted the limp head and nearly fainted. "Your Grace?" he whispered, his heart breaking. "Oh, my god, no!
Conar!"

Heil felt a sharp pain on his neck. He fell forward, dazed. Two guards dragged him up and held him, struggling between them. A heavy fist plowed into his gut. He doubled over and coughed.

"This bastard has no title!" a tight, furious voice chipped out like ice. "Any man who calls him by the title you used watches what happens to him when that mistake is made!"

Sentian tried to claw himself free. He saw the dirty blond head shake in denial of his actions. He saw the look in that scarred face: regret, forgiveness, sympathy.

They made him watch what they did to Conar.

They made him a party to his prince's torture.

Sentian stood in the doorway of his, watching Conar being taken down from the upright. More than anything, he ached to go to him, to take him in his arms and hold him. He needed to hold that ravaged body to his own.

"It hasn't been easy for him," Storm remarked from inside the barracks. "Watching those around him suffer because of their love for him. He stands his own punishments without flinching, but it's his friend's pain that hurts him the most. You can see it in his eyes."

"That's the Commandant's doing," Hern snarled. "He makes him feel the guilt of being responsible for all of us being here."

"That's why Roget du Mer's still here, despite the fact his sentence was up long ago." Thom leaned his head against the wall. "He knew too much, could tell the world Conar's alive."

Storm nodded. "That's why none of us will leave this hell hole if the Domination has anything to say about it." He joined Sentian at the door.

"It's a wonder they haven't killed him by now," Ward remarked.

"I don't think they dare," Thom answered. "They abuse him, for sure, but you'll notice how often the beatings of those who defy authority end up dead. If they could have killed him, they would have." Thom laid down on his bunk. "Tohre must have given strict orders Conar was to be kept alive."

"Why?" Sentian asked. His face was bleak and filled with pain.

"To make him suffer," Hern grated. "To let him know who his master truly is!"

Sentian watched Conar walk away from the upright, his head lowered, his shoulders sagging, cradling his broken fingers. The sight tore at his gut. Sentian turned to Hern. "Why doesn't he fight back? Why does he allow them to do the things they do? He never would have before."

One of the others spoke from his place on the far side of the room. "You didn't see him when he was first brought here. They gathered us to watch the boats coming in from the underground lake. There were no prisoners, just one coffin. They unloaded it, sat it on the sand and opened it. They made us file by and look into it." The man glanced at Sentian. "They had to knock out Jah-Ma-El when he saw who was in it. Jah-Ma-El thought he was dead."

"I saw him!" Sentian said. "I thought he was dead, too."

"We all did," Hern mumbled. "If I had only known…"

"They'd given him some kind of drug," Storm remarked. "Healer Xander told me it was called Maiden's Briar. It makes you still as death."

"Shalu helped carry that coffin into the Indoctrination Hut and saw Conar breathing," the man went on. "He told Jah-Ma-El."

"When they got through with him in the Indoctrination Hut," another men added, "they threw him into this damned cage. He was naked, totally humiliated. Du Mer took him clothes. The next morning, they took him out of that damned poultry pen and put him to work before any of us were up. He fought them at first, , but soon the abuse was so constant, he realized how futile it was to keep struggling. There were too many of them and too many of us he still cared for. He couldn't risk having one of us tortured or killed because of him."

Sentian looked at the man. "He knew you?"

A faint smile touched the man's lips. "I was one of his Elite a long time ago."

Hern nodded. "Trained him, myself, I did. His name's Shanyon. Got sent here for fighting with a Temple Guard."

"Killed the son-of-a-bitch." Shanyon chuckled. "Conar wouldn't let me be hung. So, I got sent here. Life sentence."

"You see what these bastards have done to him, don't you?" the other man asked. "They've used his guilt, and his love, against him. After a while, he stopped caring what they did to him. He tolerates it. I think he's immune to most of it by now."

Sentian shook his head. "No one could get used to such treatment."

Hern sighed. "You can get use to anything, brat."

"What will they do to him now?" Grice wanted to know.

"They damned sure won't let him go back to Du Mer's hut soon," Thom grumbled. "They'll keep him in the Indoctrination Hut."

"How long?" Sentian asked.

"Until they're satisfied he's been punished enough for your acknowledging him."

Sentian watched the others preparing for bed, but sleep would not touch him that eve. Sweat dripped down his neck and bare chest, under his armpits. He couldn't seem to find any breeze playing about the hut door as he stood with his hands along the jambs.

"I'll help you, Milord," he swore to the night sky. "Before Alel, I'll help you get free or die trying!"

* * *

Thom had been right.

The man known as the Traitor spent six weeks of isolation in the Indoctrination Hut. Six weeks of isolation from the men he had learned to watch furtively as he labored in the rock-strewn field beyond the huts.

Sometimes he could feel Sentian and Hern looking intently at him, could feel their hurt, and it was at such times he knew an inner longing that nearly drove him mad for lack of someone to talk to. On the day before he was to be returned to du Mer's hut, Conar made up his mind that life had become too hard to live.

He glanced once at the hut where he knew Sentian and Hern were sleeping, looked toward the hut where Jah-Ma-El and Roget were, took in a deep breath. He shifted his attention to the lone guard dozing near him. The snoring man's head was sagging to his chest, his mouth open and a thin thread of drool unraveling down his chin. He saw no one else about. He hesitated a moment before he laid down his pick ax and stepped away from the trench he had been digging.

With quiet footsteps, he walked calmly to one indention in the rock face of the bluff closest to him, pushed on a hidden lever and slipped silently through the opening that slid silently apart. Once outside the bluff, he shut the portal behind him and walked into the desert.

* * *

"What do you mean, you can't find him?" Appolyon screeched at Lydon Drake.

"He ain't in the compound," Lydon said. "The mine shafts, either. Least ways, we can't find him. He might have fallen down one of the shafts."

"You'd better hope not!"

"We've looked in the other bluffs. If he didn't fall into the lake and get gobbled up, he might have fallen into the lava pit. There's a lot of things could have happened to him, Commandant."

Appolyon's face went scarlet red with fury. His voice fell so low he could barely be heard. "Find him, now!"

"But Commandant, if he ain't in plain sight, if we can't find no trail, how are we—?"

"I don't care," the corpulent man sneered. "If you don't find him, do not come back!"

* * *

For more than six years, Conar McGregor had resided in that portion of hell allotted to him by Kaileel Tohre and the Tribunal. His days had been spent at hard labor, his nights in abject misery. All he had loved, all he had dreamed, all he had hoped for, had been snatched away, leaving him alone, adrift in a sea of such total loneliness, he had almost drowned.

Now, with his heart thudding, constantly turning to make sure he wasn't being followed, he made his way deeper into the desert. Away from the bluffs, away from the seaside, away from the horror of his existence. A light wind blew behind him, obliterating his tracks, and closing him off from those who might try to follow.

He knew he might well die in this barren landscape of scorching sand, scuttling insects, and slithering reptiles; he knew he might well sink beneath the shifting sand and disappear forever. He could feel his thirst clogging up his throat, but he ignored it. If he found water, it could be alkaline, undrinkable, or poisoned. If he didn't find water, he'd die of thirst and the cawing birds circling overhead would make a meal of his dehydrated body.

Conar gazed up at the black vultures. A death in the desert would be cruel and painful, but a death in the Labyrinth was worse.

For more than four hours he trekked into the interior of Tyber's Isle. The sandscape before him was flat and barren of growth, the sand torturous to walk through. His body was tired, his head throbbed from the unrelenting heat. He was drenched in sweat, his body slick with it, but he managed to put one foot ahead of the other and keep walking.

* * *

They sat before du Mer's hut and stared sullenly at guards who were standing at attention before the Commandant's hut. They could hear the fat man's insane tirades through the thick walls and could well imagine the men inside quivering.

"How many has he hung, now?" Thom asked, looking at the two guards swaying lifelessly on the uprights.

"Ten, I think," Hern answered, miserable with a head cold. He ran his sleeve under his dripping nose and sneezed.

"Does that bastard think hanging his men will make the others find Conar any quicker?" Rylan Hesar asked. He had limped to the hut, his nerve-damaged foot bothering him, and had sat beside his young brother, Paegan.

"Better he hang his own men than one of us!" Tyne snapped.

"The longer it takes them to find Conar, the more men will die," another quipped.

"Pray to Alel they
don't
find Conar!" Jah-Ma-El said.

"It's been months," Roget said. "He's either managed to find a way off this island, or he's…"

"Say he did find a way out of these bluffs," Hern said, "and say he made his way across the desert to a place where he had food and water—how do you think he's been able to allude them? They've been all over that desert searching."

"He's found somewhere safe," Chase answered. "Somewhere they haven't looked."

"Or he's with someone who's protecting him," Shalu added.

"I hope you're right," Roget told him as he watched three more guards being dragged out of the Commandant's hut. The men were kicking and screaming, their bodies writhing in the hands of the other guards who were dragging them to their deaths at the uprights.

"Too bad Lydon Drake hasn't had his damned neck stretched!" Hern snarled, watching the man who was now temporarily in charge of the guards since the Chief Warden had been hanged two weeks earlier.

"It's a shame for a man to lose his life over something he can't help," Chand said.

Hern sneezed again, then turned to the young man. "Would you rather they find him?"

Sentian Heil spoke for them all. "No, and I pray to Alel they never do."

* * *

He had lost all sense of direction, wasn't even sure he wasn't moving toward the camp instead of away from it. He put up a dirt-encrusted arm to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. Ahead, shimmering sand stretched as far as he could see. Behind, lay the caves in which he had spent more than sixteen days living off rodents and reptiles and worms and insects, desert plants and the underground water inside the cave system.

He was content to live out the rest of his life in those caves, alone and devoid of company—nothing new to him after these many years of imprisonment—had it not been for the prison guard who found the caves the same way he did, by falling through a section of the roof and plummeting into the dark depths.

At first, when Conar fell into the cave, his throat had constricted with the old terror of confined places. But a light above him where the sand had given away, and a light farther along the tunnel into which he had fallen, made him move forward, his heart beating so hard he thought it would burst. When he found the wide cavern, larger than the Widow's Grotto at Boreas, he had made the semi-dark place his home.

He heard the shouts in the deeper part of the cave, knew they had discovered his hiding place.

"Why?" he had asked the unmerciful gods.

It had been almost two days since they found his safe haven, and he'd had no water in all that time. His lips were cracked, his tongue was swollen and his throat felt like sandpaper. He had surprised himself with just how much strength he had as he kept moving through the desert. With dogged determination, he put one tired foot ahead of the other. If they were going to catch him, and he knew they probably would, for their shouts were getting closer, he wasn't going to make it easy.

They would not take him back alive, he had decided; his life no longer meant anything to him. He had known they would eventually come after him, but had hoped to be only a festering corpse when they did. But when he found the caves, he'd had a glimmer of hope light his horizon. Now, that hope was dwindling away.

Also, he knew if they took him back alive, there would be others who would pay for his escape. He didn't want that. He'd make his captors kill him.

What did it matter if he died again? No one cared. A faint tremor went through his heart. That wasn't quite true, he heard a little voice remind him. There were those who still cared: Jah-Ma-El, Sentian, Hern, the others. Those who would mourn him again, but that didn't matter to him as much now as it once would have. Nothing mattered but the ultimate ceasing of the nightmare.

He turned at a sound. A thin grimace of a smile stretched over his bleeding lips.

They were very close now. Close enough for him to see the guards, and clearly recognize them. His eyes went to the tallest, biggest man in the trio and he gave a nod of satisfaction.

"Lydon," he croaked around the constriction of his dry throat. Good. He had prayed it would be the sadistic son-of-a-bitch.

He made his legs move faster in the shifting sand. His heart pumped furiously. He gasped for breath, but it wouldn't be long now.

Lydon would kill him for sure.

Something sharp and hard hit him squarely in the small of the back. He stumbled, putting one hand up behind him to ease the sudden, horrible throbbing. Something else grazed his elbow, making it go numb. He around jerked his arm; blood oozed from a wicked gash from his elbow to the middle of his forearm. Something sailed past his face, glanced off his cheekbone. He yelped, putting up a hand that came away bloody. When another hard blow struck between his shoulders, his legs went out from under him. Sprawling face down in the hot sand, he saw what had hit him. A caltrop—a spiked metal ball about three inches in diameter, the spikes having been rounded so as not to cause too severe an injury, just sharp, blinding pain—lay in the dirt beside him.

He craned his neck and saw them within twenty feet. He pushed himself to his knees, willing his exhausted body to move. Staggering to his feet, he tried to gain a foothold in the sand, but his knees buckled and he fell. Before he could try to get up, a booted foot kicked him hard in the thigh and his leg went numb.